His Life Is That Blue Bike, Ball Glove An' Fishin' Pole,
Tree-house, Baby Gun And Band Aid Covered Knees.
He Does Good Deliverin' Papers,
An' Cuttin' Grass For The Neighbours,
Except For Widow Wilson: He Cuts Hers For Free.
His Little Hands Do A Lot For A Kid His Age,
He Puts One-tenth Of His Hard Earned Money,
In The Orphan Plate Each Sunday By His Own Choice.
There's A Lotta Man In That Little Boy.

Weekdays, He Tries To Sleep Late:
Weekends, He's Up At Daybreak.
Him An' Roy Wadin' In Cotton Creek.
That Dog Was Like His Brother:
You'd Seen One, You'd See The Other.
Cut One An' Both Of Them Would Bleed.
Tires Screamed, But That Ol' Truck Couldn't Stop.
There's The Tree That He Buried Him Under;
He Made A Cross From Scraps Of Lumber,
An' On A Card: "God Bless Ol' Roy."
There's A Lotta Man In That Little Boy.

There's A House, Down Where He Goes Fishin':
He Told His Mom: "Those Kids Got Nothin',
"And I Don't Need All These Toys."
There's A Lotta Man.
(There's A Lotta Man. There's A Lotta Man.)
In That Little Boy.